


Tripod

by pornographicrainbowlegs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Cats, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Old Peggy Carter, Polyamorous Character, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson is a Gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicrainbowlegs/pseuds/pornographicrainbowlegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, plot aside, those dinosaurs look real,” Sam defends Jurassic Park.</p><p>“I guess if I saw one I’d probably scream,” Steve shrugs as he powers down the entertainment system and sits up from where he’d been using Sam like a pillow.</p><p>“Probably, huh?” Sam asks skeptically.</p><p>“Probably.”</p><p>“Anyone ever tell you you’re a little shit?”</p><hr/><p>After a three legged cat accidentally gets into Sam's house, a lot of things happen at once. Steve and Sam adopt the terror, are haunted by the world's nicest ghost, become boyfriends, and have a dinner guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A super special thanks to [transwintersoldier](http://transwintersoldier.tumblr.com/) for all his help.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

“Well, what else are we going to do?”

“Call a fucking exterminator! This little bastard is NOT staying!”

There is a cat in the house. How the cat got into the house was entirely Steve’s fault. Sam warned Steve that the screen door didn’t latch after they accidentally smashed it while moving Steve’s things in. Sam told Steve he was going to the hardware store to get the new handle to fix the door. The door would have been fixed in an hour, but then the mailman came. And when the mailman came, Steve had to go out and say hi, leaving the front door open with the screen door unlatched. Steve swore his back was turned for only ten seconds. Sam just glared until Steve blushed and apologized.

But an apology does not change the fact that there is a cat in the house. And not just any cat, a three legged terror with a half dead mouse and muddy paw prints that the stupid thing has managed to get everywhere, including on the counter where it knocked the fruit bowl on the floor while it chased the mouse into the bread box.

Steve realized his mistake almost instantly upon returning to the house as the fruit bowl shattering to the floor had spectacular timing. He has since been unable to correct the problem as the three legged cat has evaded capture for the last two hours.

Sam is not thrilled.

“I mean, I’ve already taken care of the mouse,” Steve reasons. “I’m sure if we just leave the cat alone, he’ll calm down and be easier to deal with. We’ve been scaring him for two hours, wouldn’t you run away too?”

“No, Steve, I’d have had the common decency to leave when I’m not wanted!” Sam shouts uncooperatively.

“There’s a military base missing an experimental set of wings that might make you a hypocrite,” Steve says with only a hint of cockiness.

Sam’s cheeks flush but his jaw sets in defiance. He holds the expression for a moment before deflating. "Fine. You have a point," he concedes, turning to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Steve calls after him.

"That _tripod_ ," he spits with angry insensitivity, "already got mud and blood on everything in sight. He doesn't need to piss on it too." Sam exits to the garage to get the cat litter he keeps for oil spills.

Steve shrugs and finds the cleaning supplies for the mud and blood.

The next day, after the cat has not made an appearance in at least twelve hours, Steve buys some cat food. When Sam stares him down, Steve says he did it to maybe lure the cat out of the basement that Sam scared him into. Steve shakes the food bowl for a half hour before giving up. In the morning, some of the food is missing. Steve refills it before going for his morning jog.

Two days after that, Steve notices a cat shaped patch of loose hair on his bed, but the cat himself is not there upon waking. Sam finds a hairball on his bed. Sam makes Steve do the laundry, which Steve thinks is fair since the cat is his fault and Sam was gracious enough to let Steve in his house in the first place, the least he can do is not wreck it.

Their living situation was born mostly out of mutual agreement after some bullying and compromise. Steve left the hospital AMA under the condition that he stayed in Sam’s guest bedroom so Sam could keep an eye on the worst of the injuries and help keep the impossible-to-reach bandages clean. Super soldier notwithstanding, it took two weeks to get back to relative normalcy. He still had some pain getting up and down stairs, but breathing and eating no longer caused any discomfort.

By the time Steve was back to good, Sam busied himself convincing Steve to move in. He had a valid set of arguments that were ultimately unnecessary because Steve agreed immediately. He did not want to go back to his shot up, bloody apartment. He hadn’t gotten around to making it a home anyway. The apartment was pre-furnished and he hardly spent time there for all the missions he was assigned to and the others he volunteered to join. It was his home more out of convenience than actual want for the space.

Living with Sam was better, even with the extra laundry duty.

* * *

Sam fills a glass of milk and leaves it on the counter while he goes to get the mail. When he returns, it’s shattered on the floor. His glass cups dwindle down to five of the original eight. Steve purchases Sam a set of plastic cups that match his dish set. In the same shopping trip, he purchases a scratching post and a bag of assorted cat toys.

“Tripod needs exercise,” Steve says.

Steve doesn’t say how he spent at least three hours researching tripod cats earlier in the afternoon. It started as a distraction from his Bucky ~~obsession~~ research, but morphed into something not heart wrenchingly painful so he didn’t stop. Then, when his afternoon prospects became either visiting Peggy or more Bucky, he did the selfish thing and went to the pet store.

“Did you. Oh my god,” Sam stutters with a brokenly hysteric laugh. “I don’t even know where to start.”

The cat toys are scattered about the house every morning, some stuck under the couch and the coffee table quite clearly out of Tripod’s reach. Steve searches under various surfaces and piles them all back up in the middle of the living room again before going for his morning jog.

“We cannot keep him,” Sam says, watching the entryway to the living room. Steve is leaning against the counter, mug of coffee in hand while Sam flips pancakes and bacon and eggs. Tripod is sitting on the couch, visible for the first time in two days.

“I didn’t say we should,” Steve shrugs.

“We need to take him to the shelter, what if he’s microchipped?”

“What if he’s not?”

Three days after that, Tripod jumps onto Steve’s lap. He leans his missing limb into Steve’s chest and starts kneading bread with his remaining front paw while Sam looks on from his spot on his oversized Lazyboy recliner. Tripod looks up at Steve and squeaks a meow, then chirps like a pigeon when Steve rewards him with a scritch behind the ears.

Steve looks up at Sam like a deer in the headlights. Sam caves. “We take him to the vet. If he’s not microchipped, he can stay.”

Sam makes the appointment, not trusting that Steve wouldn’t lie to him about the results of the microchip scan. There is no microchip. They spend the fifty dollars to get it implanted. Sam also bullies Steve into doing the responsible thing and hanging a few posters at the vet’s office and calling the local shelters, just in case. They leave the vet’s office with a tips sheet for how to adapt to a three legged cat that Steve was too polite to decline.

Steve waits a cursory week, but when no inquires about the lost posters come, he spends a fortune on the cat. He gets a second scratching post that has four levels and a ramp. He gets catnip balls and large mouse shaped plush toy that won’t get stuck under the couch. He buys more cat litter, and several actual litter box to replace the large tub they had been using. He buys the large bag of cat food and, by recommendation, an electric water fountain to encourage hydration. He gets string toys, a cat cube, and a cat hut.

It takes three trips to bring it all into the house. Sam quietly judges Steve while he unpacks his purchases for an unimpressed Tripod.

He puts the second scratching post in front of the sliding back door in the kitchen. The perch on the top needs to be vacuumed of cat hair regularly. Sam invests in a spray bottle. Actually, several. They came in a three pack and Sam bought two. He keeps one in every room.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam and Steve always run together on Saturday mornings, like a standing date. Sam tries to run more often during the week, but work sometimes makes crossing paths impractical. They also have movie night which is usually preceded by a fancy dinner, alternating who is cooking and who does the dishes. It feels domestic in a way that Sam wasn’t aware he needed until the empty side of his bed feels cold and he dreams of Steve warming it up.

Still, it takes a while for Sam to get his nerve up to say something. He doesn’t want his invitation to cross any lines they can’t come back from. But when he wakes up to a fourth coughed up hairball on what should be Steve’s side of his bed, now is the time.

“He doesn’t puke on your bed,” Sam complains.

“So shut your door?” Steve suggests, not only unhelpful but also oblivious.

Sam rolls his eyes and goes with a different tactic. “I bought this house so I could have a guest bedroom.”

Steve slumps just a little before recovering. “Okay, I’ll start looking for a place to move out.”

Sam smiles. “How about my bedroom?”

Steve looks confused for a moment before the suggestion catches up with him. Then he blushes and stammers out an affirmative. Sam wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders and shakes him close a few times before planting a kiss on his cheek. Steve blushes harder as Sam says, “Oh come on, like I’d kick you out over a few hairballs.”

Steve moves his clothes into the other half of Sam’s closet and buys hairball cream and a brush.

“Can you scoop the litter box before you leave?” Sam calls across the hall.

“Sure,” Steve says, pulling his running shirt over his head.

“Thanks, I’ll make spaghetti for dinner,” Sam says. “See you tonight.” And then he’s out the garage and off to the VA.

Steve adjusts the string on his shorts and ties his shoes before leaving out the front door. He returns home, dripping sweat while he rehydrates with four glasses of water. He sets the empty cup on the counter with a heavy sigh before jumping in the shower. After putting on a fresh set of clothes, he’s out the door to go visit his best girl.

“We had a three legged dog once,” she tells him. “We named him Tripper,” she laughs. The wrinkles around her eyes crease deeply and Steve smiles too, big and bright. She turns to him seriously and says, “Make sure you watch what he eats.”

“The vet gave us a tips sheet,” he nods.

Steve leaves the nursing home in the early afternoon with a heavy heart. Peggy had forgotten him when he’d returned from the restroom. He couldn’t leave her so soon after she thought he’d arrived. He circled back through the easy topics, new information so he wouldn’t have to suffer through things she could no longer remember. She told him for a second time about Tripper, and gave him the same warning. He listened with the same interest the second time around.

Upon returning home, Steve takes the tiny trash can from the garage and goes around to the three litter boxes they have scattered through the house. Only one of them is dirty and he returns the trash can back to the garage.

Sam makes spaghetti for dinner, and they talk about their days. Steve doesn’t tell Sam that Peggy’s forgetting a little more. Sam’s really good about leaving his counselor mode at work, but it still seeps in sometimes and Steve isn’t in the mood to deal with the other emotions associated with losing Peggy before he’s ready. Sam tells Steve that it was someone’s birthday so everyone got bagels.

Steve takes care of packing away the leftovers and puts the dishes in the sink to deal with in the morning before meeting Sam in the living room for a movie. Sam is slowly making Steve watch through his Greatest Hits. Sam has also revised his Greatest Hits to not include some of the movies after he shows Steve. “Okay, plot aside, those dinosaurs look real,” Sam defends Jurassic Park.

“I guess if I saw one I’d probably scream,” Steve shrugs as he powers down the entertainment system and sits up from where he’d been using Sam like a pillow.

“Probably, huh?” Sam asks skeptically.

“Probably.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a little shit?”

* * *

Steve leaves for his run really early and Sam is gone to work by the time he gets home. After a shower, he makes his way to the kitchen to start breakfast, noticing that the dinner dishes from the night before are settled into the drying rack next to the sink. Steve smiles, feeling just a little sheepish for having shirked his duties off on Sam. It wasn’t intentional; he’ll make it up to him.

He stops by the fancy cupcake store to pick Sam up the beautiful looking Strawberries & Cream one he gushes over secretly when he thinks Steve isn’t watching. He also picks himself up a slice of turtle cheesecake.

When he returns home, he sequesters himself in the living room with Bucky’s file. Sam arrives home and smiles fondly at the cupcake waiting for him on the kitchen table. Then he fusses over Steve, physically plucking the file out of his hands when he sees the tear tracks down his face.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Sam asks.

Steve doesn’t know. 

Sam sighs and waves Steve to move his legs so he can sit on the couch next to him. Steve resettles his legs over Sam’s lap. There’s a tense moment of silence and attempted comfort while Sam gathers his thoughts, trying to keep that counselor voice out of this exchange. “Is this. I mean, we’ve talked about this. If you want to go after him, you have my support.”

Steve sniffles and rubs the snot from under his nose. “I know,” he says. “And I appreciate it. But I don’t want to hunt Bucky down, he’s not an animal.”

Sam rubs Steve’s calf with empathy. Tripod jumps on Steve’s chest and cat loafs, bleating rumbly purrs and random chirps when Steve scratches him under his chin.


	3. Chapter 3

When Steve returns from his morning jog, he can hear the sound of the washer and dryer rumbling. The dishes are in the drying rack and the cat perch has been vacuumed, as has the living room floor.

 _Were you late for work this morning?_ Steve texts Sam.

_No? Why?_

_Just wondering, thank you._

* * *

When Steve takes his shower after his run in the morning, he notices the shower drain is working more effectively. He had been going to get to it over the weekend, but now he doesn’t have to. He smiles at Sam’s thoughtfulness, but again feels a bit embarrassed for not keeping up his duties. He makes Sam’s favorite for dinner and meets him at the door with a kiss.

* * *

The kitchen towels are new and that’s how he knows something is completely wrong. There is no way Sam had enough time to get matching kitchen towels when he came straight home from work and spent the whole night with Steve doing various activities.

“You don’t have a maid service, do you?” Steve asks, unable to come up with any actual reason why all the chores are getting done without him or Sam doing them.

“God no, I can’t afford that shit,” Sam says. “Why?”

Steve has no idea how to answer that question. “No reason,” he shrugs it off.

Steve spends the next three days not leaving the house at all. He goes absolutely stir crazy, and on the fourth day, Sam makes him leave because it’s Saturday and they have a running date, damn it.

When they get back, their bed is made and the laundry is sorted with one load already started and the throw blankets in the living room are settled attractively over the edge of the couch and Lazyboy recliner.

“You’re seeing this too,” Steve says, and it’s not a question even though it should be. He’s far too freaked out for Sam not to agree so he makes it impossible for Sam to disagree by making a statement instead.

“Uh-huh,” Sam nods. “Are all the doors locked?”

The two do a quick perimeter check, which also includes checking if anything is missing. Except why would a burglar spend the time to fold blankets and wash the two coffee cups in the sink? All the doors are locked. All the windows are locked. Nothing is out of place that would suggest they had an intruder except that the vents are dusted, too, and Sam hasn’t even done that since his mother came to visit last time.

“Okay.” Another statement, a thoughtful pause. “So what do we do about this?” and it’s so carefully worded and measured when it comes out that the answer should be equally as careful and measured. But it isn’t.

“Flour.”

“What?”

“Flour. You know, like in the movies,” Steve says.

“This is not Scooby Doo,” Sam shakes his head.

“Oh come on, what’s your idea then?” Steve goads him.

Sam raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, if you know what you’re doing.”

They sprinkle about a cup of flour in front of all the doors - the garage door, the front door, and the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Steve wants to sprinkle it in front of the windows, but Sam draws the line at that.

They head to the bedroom fairly early, and engage in various activities. Steve has actually always been a very heavy sleeper. Sam, not so much, but after a rousing round of vigorous sex, he sleeps like the dead.

Until a noise in the night makes his eyes flutter and adjust to the darkness of his bedroom. At first, he wants to dismiss the noise to Tripod being a shithead. But when it happens again, he can’t ignore it, and shifts the blankets aside to go investigate. Still mostly convinced it’s Tripod, he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water before tracking down the noise. The flour in front of the patio door is undisturbed, as is the flour in front of the garage door. A quick glance down the foyer confirms that pile is also the same as it had been when they’d put it out.

When he finds Tripod batting at his plush mouse, he shrugs off the noises he heard and shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak before going back to bed.

 _Thump_.

Very much not a cat noise, Sam’s heart starts to race. He shakes and stuffs his dick back in his boxers before turning. The noise was really close. He picks up a shampoo bottle from the shower and walks towards the door, only cracked. He pulls the door open and is greeted by a very pissed off hiss before he shouts and throws the shampoo bottle up when he raises his hands to catch the _thing_ that has landed on his head.

“Sam!” Steve shouts from the bedroom, falling out of bed and stumbling to run down the hall to his boyfriend.

“Arrguuuhhh!” Sam shouts and pulls at the thing on his face.

“Sam?” Steve asks, flipping on the hallway light.

Sam is standing in the bathroom doorway with Tripod raised like Simba on Pride Rock and the most sour expression on his face.

“God damn cat!” Sam shouts and shoves the stupid furball into Steve’s hands and skulks down the hall to crawl back into bed.

Steve comes to the bedroom shortly after. “Shut the door,” Sam demands bitterly.

Steve does and then climbs into bed next to Sam, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder to curl himself up next to his boyfriend. “What happened?”

“Stupid cat,” Sam says. “He jumped on my face from the top of the door. Scared the shit out of me. How the hell did he even _get up there_?”

Steve tries not to laugh and covers it with a kiss to Sam’s neck. “Go to sleep,” he says.

Then the yowling begins, and pawing at the bedroom door. The yowls and chirps last for a few minutes, just long enough that Steve ruffles the blankets like he’s going to get up and open the door before Sam shoots an arm out to pull him back, “Don’t you dare.”

The caterwauling quits for a while before starting up again. Steve again makes like he’s going to let the cat in and Sam again pulls him back. “He does not get to win,” Sam says.

* * *

Sam hits the snooze five times before dragging himself out of bed. He creeks his way to the bathroom for a shower before going to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Steve already has the cup ready for him when he arrives. He points with his own coffee cup at the sliding glass door. “You know, I don’t think we thought that through very well,” he says, referring to the now cleaned up flour.

The flour is also swept up from the garage door and front door. Steve knows without looking that the litter boxes have been scooped. The pillows and blankets in the living room have also been arranged in an aesthetically pleasing way. The coasters on the coffee table are stacked in their caddy.

“Nope, definitely not,” Sam agrees and takes a sip of the bitter, sugarless coffee.

“Either we’re losing our minds, or we’re being haunted by the world’s nicest ghost,” Steve says.

“Could go either way on that one,” Sam shrugs. “But there might be a third option.”

“And that is?”

“Werecat.”

“Because _werecat_ is so much more plausible than world’s nicest ghost.”

* * *

“New plan,” Sam determines. “I cannot believe we went with your cockamamie _flour_ idea - “

“ _Cockamamie_? What are you, eighty? What’s your secret?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Sam deflects. “What we _need_ is a Nanny Cam.”

“What in the hell is a Nanny Cam?”


	4. Chapter 4

They purchase a Nanny Cam that looks like a digital picture frame. They fill a flash drive with photographs of the two of them, a few extras of Sam’s family, and ones that the Smithsonian digitally scanned from all their archives collected for the exhibit. They put it on a shelf in the entertainment system, replacing the framed candid photo Natasha took of them when Steve was still in the hospital. It actually has a great vantage point for the whole living room and part of the kitchen.

Steve tries not to be disappointed when there are no signs of the friendly ghost for the next three days.

When he returns home from his visit with Peggy on the fourth day, he notices the lawn has been mowed. He checks the video feed and frowns when all it contains is Tripod playing with his plush mouse all day and absolutely no sign of the ghost. On the other hand, it also includes Tripod jumping from the couch to the coffee table and tragically missing. Sam resolutely does not feel bad about laughing. He puts that clip on repeat and saves it to his phone to watch on bad days at the office.

* * *

Steve returns from his jog to see that the dishes are in the drying rack and gets disproportionately excited. He pulls the Nanny Cam from the shelf and plugs it into the computer. The software loads and Steve waits impatiently. When it finally displays, Steve skims through the video, clicking the tracker at the bottom a few minutes at a time and waiting for the buffer before it continues. It stops at Tripod napping, then Tripod puking up a hairball (Steve looks at the carpet and notices the missing hairball), then a shadow in the doorway. Steve stopps skipping forward and watches.

Steve watches as the clearly male figure walks into the house with the tiny trash can from the garage and presumably cleans litter boxes out of frame for a few minutes. There is not a clear shot when he walks down the hallway, nor when he returns the can to the garage. He goes to the kitchen to wash his hands before starting on the dishes. Steve watches, a mix of irritation and fascination and completely unable to skip ahead in case he misses something vital.

The figure turns, pulling the cloth towel from where it hangs on the handle of the oven to dry his hands before returning it and stepping through the threshold and into the living room. His face is downcast at the hairball before he turns around, likely to go get cleaning supplies, and that’s when Steve notices the something vital he’d possibly have missed had he just continued to skip through the footage.

A glint off the exposed left hand that has Steve’s heart racing in his chest even though this is the only evidence to suggest who the so-far shadowed man is.

But it’s enough that Steve has to pause the video with a shaking hand. 

He takes a thready breath. Without confirmation, his reaction is silly and he tramps down the overwhelming tightening in his chest. He’s not ready to go on but the alternative is unacceptable too so he presses play, schooling himself to be stoic.

The detachment doesn’t finish settling in his bones before the pixels depict Bucky as he returns to the living room and looks up at the camera for the first time.

Bucky, it really, really is Bucky. And Steve watches as Bucky sets the cleaning supplies on the coffee table and walks closer to the picture frame, curious expression on his face. Steve’s eyes are suddenly blurry and he blinks them away, reedy breaths coming in quick bursts as his chest heaves and constricts with - he’s not sure what - relief? That sounds right. But now Bucky’s picking the picture frame up and his face is fully framed in the movie viewing software and Steve has to pause it on Bucky’s face and just take it all in.

Steve catalogues his appearance, searching for all available signs of self care. He’s shaved and his hair looks brushed. His lips are chapped, but his lips were always chapped. He looks better than Steve expected, but he also hadn’t known what to expect at all so his scale is a little biased. But he looks good. Steve positively beams at the picture before him, spending an extreme amount of time just studying the familiar wrinkles by Bucky’s eyes, and the not so familiar scars that mar his complection. He could spend all day just looking, drinking in his fill, but there’s more to the video and he has to know what’s on it.

The background jostles behind Bucky’s framed face as he walks to the Lazyboy recliner to sit and look into the camera. Steve happily smiles along with watching Bucky watch the rotating pictures of the digital frame. Steve doesn’t know what exact pictures were playing while Bucky watches, but he has a feeling some of the Smithsonian copies are what causes little bubbles of tears to spill out of Bucky’s eyes.

It’s painful to watch, but almost cathartic and Steve so wishes he could have been there to hug the tears away, no matter how sappy Bucky would accuse him of being.

Four minutes of video pass before Bucky gets out of the chair and shakily returns the frame to its place on the shelf in the entertainment center. Bucky cleans the hairball and then leaves out the garage door, only minutes before Steve steps through the front door.

* * *

Sam catches Steve rewatching the video ~~for the eighteenth time~~ when he returns home in the evening. Steve replays the video for Sam, who watches with a bit more objectivity than Steve ever could.

“So?” Steve asks when the software displays the Replay button at the end of the video.

Sam thinks for a suspenseful moment and Steve’s heart constricts in his chest while he waits. “So, nothing changes.”

“What the hell do you mean, nothing changes?” Steve explodes. “This changes everything!”

“You asked my opinion!” Sam accuses him.

Steve clamps his mouth shut and gestures for Sam to continue, trying to be open minded.

Sam nods appreciatively. And in a way only Sam can manage, it doesn’t sound condescending when he opens his mouth to say, “Thank you, I know how hard that was.” He takes a breath and sighs it out. “Look, he’s obviously not ready to actually say hi. If he knows you’re watching, he might not come back at all.”

“Or but what if he’s waiting for an invitation?” Steve interrupts, unable to keep it in.

Sam shrugs and shakes his head. “You know him better than I would.”

Except Sam is right and Steve just doesn’t want to admit it. So nothing changes.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks went by and slowly Steve just stopped doing all the chores, just so that Bucky would have a reason to drop by. Steve filled the Nanny Cam with more Smithsonian pictures, much to Sam’s jaw clenching irritation. “I said, nothing changes. You agreed!”

Steve shrugs like he has no idea what Sam is talking about.

But now he has four new videos of Bucky just watching the picture slideshows. Bucky stays longer and longer sitting on the Lazyboy just watching them, chewing on his bottom lip and smiling a choked little smile. In the latest video, Bucky even takes an orange off the fruitbowl on the counter and milk from the fridge. Steve stocks up extra oranges and buys three gallons of milk on grocery day instead of their usual two.

* * *

Steve falls asleep on the couch. It isn’t entirely a plan, but his eyes are drooping and he’s putting off going to see Peggy until a little later because she’s usually better in the afternoons than she is in the mornings so he figures he might as well nap off some of the exhaustion that comes after a really intense run.

So he falls asleep on the couch, Tripod curled in front of his chest so he can gently stroke his fingers through his fur as he dozes off.

He wakes up with a blanket tucked over his shoulders that he knows wasn’t there before he laid down. Rewatching the video reveals Bucky taking the blanket from off the Lazyboy and unfolding it before laying it gently over Steve, and then leaning down to press the gentlest of kisses to Steve’s cheek.

* * *

Sam was sullen and withdrawn all evening. And perhaps it was a little selfish and shortsighted but he couldn’t help the biting comments and rude remarks.

“What the hell is your problem?” Steve finally snaps.

Sam purses his lips and shrugs.

Steve studies him for a few moments before his eyes light up and his face splits in a shit eating grin. “You’re jealous,” Steve observes.

“Oh, fuck you, Rogers,” Sam retorts flippantly.

And a serious conversation about this was definitely a long time coming, but it could wait until after an apology blowjob that Sam definitely deserved after putting up with Steve’s baggage.

* * *

“Have you seen Barnes recently?” Peggy asks next time Steve visits.

Steve chokes. “Peg,” he says gently, not entirely sure how to handle this one. Bucky had come up before in conversation, but he was sort of a fleeting topic, especially before Steve knew he was alive. But even now, Bucky’s sort of a worried spot Steve tries to avoid so he doesn’t hurt so bad when it’s over.

Peggy narrows her eyes, and then softens her face into a smile. “He dropped by with some flowers,” she says wistfully.

And Steve is so sure this is a memory replayed that the tears have already started welling in his eyes. “Peggy,” he says, still so drowning for his inability to tell her a lie but unable to handle a breakdown.

“Don’t you ‘Peggy’ me,” she handles him. “He was just here yesterday. He asked about you.”

“He what?” Steve stumbles, dumfounded.

“He asked about you,” she repeats, smiling knowingly. She talks very smoothly about Bucky’s visit. She tells Steve everything, and it feels like a cool drink of water after a long year in the desert. Bucky, ever the gentleman, made sure Peggy was doing alright and that she was happy and healthy and the staff treated her right. Then, once satisfied, he almost begged for information about Steve: is he eating enough, who is Sam, does he make Steve happy, _is_ Steve happy. And at that she softens. “And I didn’t know how to answer him, except to say that a visit from him would make you the happiest you’ve ever been.”

Steve wipes the tears away from his cheeks and sniffles unattractively. Peggy hands him the Kleenex box from her bedside table.

* * *

Sam comes home from work and only pauses long enough to take his coat off before getting on his knees in front of Steve and sucking him off.

“Not to seem ungrateful,” Steve asks once he has caught his breath, “but what was that for?”

Sam rubs his chin where some come spilled over his lips and licks it off his hand with a most cheshire grin. “Just wanted you to be relaxed is all,” he says. “I’ll start dinner.”

The whole house smells like fried onions and garlic and spices. There’s music playing from the radio in the kitchen while Sam sings along. Steve sits on the couch, reading and petting Tripod while he waits for Sam to let him know it’s time to set the table. Then the doorbell rings.

“Can you get that?” Sam calls from the kitchen, looking at Steve through the archway with a spatula in hand.

Steve marks his book and sets Tripod from his lap to the pillow instead and petting him gently to settle. Then he pads over to the front door and unlocks the deadbolt before pulling the door open, greeting dying on his lips.

“Hi,” Bucky says.

“Steve,” Sam says from closer than Steve was expecting, “I don’t know how it was back in the 40s, but usually when a friend comes over to say hello, the proper response is to let them in.”

Steve numbly reaches for the screen door handle and pushes it open, making a grand gesture for Bucky to come in. “You catchin’ flies?” Bucky asks as he walks across the threshold. Steve picks his jaw off the floor, shutting his mouth and the door.

Tripod jumps off the couch and pigeon chirps while he runs to meet their guest, who swoops down to greet him. Bucky whispers something, and even Steve can’t be sure, but it sounds like a thank you. But why would Bucky be thanking the cat?

* * *

Four Months Later:

Bucky is a blanket hog so they put him in the middle. There are still some nights that Bucky can’t sleep in the middle and instead has to take the floor or the guest bedroom or doesn’t sleep at all. Wherever Bucky sleeps, Tripod sleeps too, usually using his ass to curl up on. But when he sleeps in their bed, he sleeps in the middle so that he can get the heat from Sam and Steve both. Sam voluntarily surrenders the blankets most nights because Bucky runs so hot. Steve tries to keep his share of the blankets through the night, but almost always wakes up with hardly a share to speak of.

This goes on until Bucky’s birthday. Sam buys Bucky a snuggie. Steve buys him a roomba.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://captainrainbowlegs.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
